And the WINNER is....

Thank you VERY much for playing the speed-round of "Diagnose the Redhead's Malady."

I certainly appreciate the enthusiasm and overall excitement shown by all the players.

As you might remember, the rules were pretty simple:

1. No one was allowed to look at, talk to, poke, or otherwise have ANY contact with Chuck before making their diagnosis.
2. Participants must hold at least ONE advanced degree in a non-medical field, and must go by titles such as Dean, Vice President, General, Professor, and Queen of Everything.
3. Deadline for submitting guess-diagnosis was before Chuck's funeral, and before a licensed physician provided an acceptable (meaning *I Like It*) diagnosis.

Now that the Physician has provided an acceptable diagnosis, I am happy to announce the finalists & winner.

5th Place: (anonymous) "What did he smoke?"

4th Place: Dr. Finkelstein, who holds PhD in History & diagnosed "something with his inner ear"
Good guess, but not specific enough to actually win.

3rd Place: (anonymous) MPA/MA, and other distinctions he chooses not to have publicized.
Guess: Encephalitis The Dr. actually asked me "Who said encephalitis? Wow. Now that was interesting."
Which I took to mean brilliant. As usual.

2nd Place: Vice President of Donuts, Ordering Lunch and Discussing Foreign Films. Holder of a PhD in Political Science
Guess: "Meniere's Disease" -- very very close. Wow! OK. Enough. Get back to work. It's Friday, do we get to order Gordo's today?? Let me know!

1st Place: Dr. Peggy Russell, PhD in Psychology -- which means she actually understands like chemistry and stuff that make most of us either shut down, roll our eyes or change the subject -- with the CORRECT diagnosis -->Labyrinthitis.

When told that she won this game, Dr. Russell asked what the prize was.

I told her --> the prize is CHARLES LEMON.

That didn't make her too happy. She already had a husband, and isn't interested in a half-used one, especially one with kids.

Which is too bad, since she already SIGNED the waiver saying she would not only take delivery of the prize, but would be responsible for all taxes and insurance.

As a consolation prize, Peggy, I'm willing to give you a windowless office RIGHT next to mine, burn wonderfully scented candles, keep my door open so that you can have SOME clue of what the weather is outside, and give you free backrubs.

Thanks!

Click, click, scratch....?

Click, click, scratch.

I was asleep in Zoe's bed (why?) floating toward awakeness between dreams when I heard it.

Right next to my head, inches away from my hair, my ears.

Click, scratch, scratch, scratch, click, click.

I slipped out of sleep into wide awake. My imagination grew bigger than my courage.

Was it a mouse? A huge roach?

Maybe it was outside the house.

Click, scratch, scratch, click, shuffle.


I might be a girlie girl in many ways, but I am NOT squeamish.

The other day I was in M.'s office, and a roach crawled right across his desk towards me. I picked up his stapler, whacked it dead, then grabbed a kleenex and tossed the carcas.....Our conversation continued.

When I was 8 months pregnant, I found a (small) snake in our house.

It was raining cats and dogs (and snakes?) outside, so I guess it slithered in for warmth. I didn't scream. Just told Chuck to get me a shoe. I kept and eye on the snake, then looked for Chuck.

He was standing on the kitchen counter, in his underwear, wearing his shoes and shouting "kill it, kill it."

Thank God I didn't have a blog back then, huh tough guy?

So anyway, I got one of MY shoes - a pointy-heeled one - and, after trapping the snake in a envelope, wrapping the envelope with ducttape, gave the package one good WHACK then walked out in the rain and dumped the whole thing in the dumpster.

I am not a scaredy-girl.

Now look, I'm a morning person.
I'm brilliant and insightful before the sun even wakes up. But this is not morning. This is 12:55am, still night.
I listen carefully.
Click, click, scratch.
It's coming from Zoe's toybox, the one right by her bed, the green one that's so full it has doll hair flowing out the sides.
Shuffle, scratch, click.
All I can think of is getting that f**ing toybox out of her room, out of my house, OUT!
I don't mind SILENT roaches and snakes, but whatever this is -- it's bold. It thinks it's at home. It's gross, nasty, and I need to evict it.
I make up my mind to throw the whole toybox out, unopened. In a dumpster.
Far away from our house.
So what if the box is filled with toys she loves?
But first, before I take draconian measures, I need someone else to hear the click-click-scrach, just to make sure that I'm not delirious.
I'm not delirious. But a second opinion is good, right?
Chuck is at his prime between 12am and 2am. Yes, he's been out of commission lately, but the man is very awake, very intelligent, and able to walk across the house.
I find him watching TV.
Chuck? Can you come with me?
He gets RIGHT up, almost falling over. Big smile on his face. Apparently, he's happy to hear from me. I can only IMAGINE why *he* thinks I'm approaching him, but that's another story.
We rarely see each other at night, but I'm scared.
I hear this scratch, click, click thing going on. It's a mouse, trapped in Zoe's toy box. Or a huge roach. A roach family.
He laughs. He knows that I know that he is NOT going to open the box and either save or kill the invading racoon, mouse, or monster.
We tiptoe into Zoe's room together. She's still asleep.
Here, sit here. Listen.
He hears NOTHING.
Shhhh. Wait.
Click, click, scratch.
There it IS!
I can barely see his face, until he opens his flip-phone, throwing blue-white light on both of us. His eyes are wide. I wonder if he brought the phone in case we needed 911?
Chuck moves the phone light around a bit. Then points at the strings hanging from Zoe's toy box.
It isn't doll hair.
It's an FSU cheerleader pom-pom. Hanging out of the toybox. Rustling in the wind from the ceiling fan.
Is that your monster?
I double over laughing so hard that my laugh is silent, convulsive, relieved, exhausted.
We both leave Zoe's room and head to the kitchen to debrief the crisis.
Well, I did just have a dream about Justin Timberlake. He piled his trash by the door of his house, and never took it out. It was crawling with foot-sized roaches and huge aggressive spiders.
Chuck raises his eyebrows.
I think he still has hopes for sex at this point.
The optimism of a male libido is truly amazing.
So you dreamed about Justin Timberlake? Again?
I laugh. I want to kick him, but in his current condition, he'd fall over.
Shut up! Don't wake me up anymore. You know I'm never going to get back to sleep.
I start to walk back to Zoe's room, then decide on Zack's room. As a second thought, I call over my shoulder in a loud whisper, Will you please write this for me?
No.
NO?
No.
I'm defeated. I have to write this now. Or I'll keep writing it in my head all night. It's a bad habit, one I'm loathe to admit. I tell myself stories, over and over and over. I'm a compulsive storyteller. It's a wonderful addiction, but not conducive to sleeping.
I'm exhausted.
Will youPLEASE just find me a pen and I can sit in the hallway and write it?
No. Go to bed.
No???
I give him a dirty look which he doesn't deserve because the man is, right now, the sanest person in the house.
Then I grab my journal and slide down on the floor by the sofa, my shoulder next to his leg.
I write quickly, cracking myself up.
I'm telling everyone about the snake.
That's not cool.
I know. But it's funny. You had on tighty-whitey's. And I was pregnant.
He laughs.
I write.
Click, click, scratch.
Goodnight.

Nice People

I'm completely awed by people, here in Tallahasee --and others in more remote areas --stepping up with unsolicited kindness during my STRESS.

This is truly mind-boggling for me, because I'm that ridiculously independent person who likes to think she needs NOTHING and has EVERYTHING to give.

I give umbrellas out to strangers on rainy days. Cold bottles of water to homeless people.
I'm nice.
I'm the giver.


Except with Chuck.
We've never exactly discussed it, but as far as I can tell, he's supposed to take care of :

• organizing & paying the bills (I'm fine with being a cash cow)
• getting the kids to school
• teaching them manners
• doing laundry (this is a joke, ok?)
• driving
• making sure the cars get oil changes and tire rotations
• filling tanks
• returning phone calls
• making sure that everything, in general, is wonderful so that I can spend my time out of the house, away from him, giving all my energy to the rest of the world

Well, so far, I haven't been able to rely on him for all that for the past two weeks. Which means I can't be such a princess. Devastating news, huh?

That's fine.

My friends have been amazing in simple ways.

Debbie brought me three bottles of diet coke for no reason other than she knows I can't function without it.

Please pray for Debbie. She took her toering off and she can't get it back on, "even with KY" -- hello? Debbie? KY for your toes? Thanks for the blogfodder.

Peggy, the licensed & practicing pyschologist of the group, knows better than to be my psychologist. She's a friend, a comrade-in-arms, who showed up to work today with a stiff neck (uh, oh -- watch out Mr. Bunny) & a story about passing out last night (sober!) and hitting her head. The image of her falling face-first anywhere near cat litter was enough to lighten my spirit (no, she didn't land in cat litter, but wouldn't that be great blog fodder???)

Jarrett's given me girlscout cookies (the chocolate mint ones - which makes her a candidate for sainthood), space, support and generally can read my mind. Which is a great relief.

She also came up with a great idea. Chuck's HAD his 2 weeks, now he needs to function with his disability.

So we tried to think of things Chuck could do.

The dishes? no. Laundry? no. Drive? no. Bathing the kids? no. Sitting at the table with the kids while Mommy hides in the bathroom? yes!

R* walked me through some usually-simple technology issues that my tired brain couldn't process, then told me stories of a friend whose husband starting falling apart years ago -- a woman my age who had to go to work so she taught the kids to dial 911 and wait outside for help.

She told me that it's time to grow up. I didn't tell her to f* herself. Which, in itself, is a sign of growing up.

Debra distracts me and then throws her foot-in-the-cast on her desk, just in case I forget how good I've got things.

Cody laughs loudly and is easily shocked by my stories, which is a huge huge gift in my world.

A student gave me a playlist with songs.

All and all, I'm doing OK. Chuck is functioning. And we're both convinced that any day he will spontaneously get better.

Meanwhile, I'm accepting donations of diet coke, Dora the Explorer Videos, cookies, steak and frequent-flyer miles.

Unexpected Side Effects

Chuck's illness is having unexpected side effects in my life.

1) Until I started taking the children to school in the morning, I had NO idea how competitive Zoe is....

See, the first kid to arrive in her classroom gets to pick out the video that all the 5 years olds will watch until 8:25am.

Zoe, like her mom, is all about getting there FIRST and WINNING.

Go Team Zoe!

2) Um, I REALLY like traffic circles.

I have to drive through Killearn Estates (Bobby Bowden's neighborhood) to get to Zack's preschool. It's a beautiful drive, but the best part is playing chicken with the mommies in their minivans.

Hello? My car is lower & faster -- plus and I don't drive with a donut in my hand.

Competitive edge. Go Team Melissa!

3) Zack is great at giving directions.

He's like my special guide, helping me navigate from Zoe's school across town to his school.

Mommy, follow the sun until you get to the green arrow. Then stop.

Go Team Zack!

4) I now know that I'm able to take 2 preschoolers to the grocery in the pouring rain, while wearing a suit and heels, sans umbrella AND get out for under $100.

Laughing the entire time.

Go Team!

Stuck

Is it possible to be trapped in a happy place?

Right now it's pouring outside my office. Horrible squall-like rain, wind, thunder.

There is NO way I'm leaving here in my skirt and heels and suit until I have to... go to the bank, pick up the kids, go to the grocery...

But for now, I'm stuck.
In my wonderful office, which smells like apple cinnamon and vanilla and coffee.

Peaceful. Cozy.


I'm almost inspired to make a grocery list.

Or write.

This whole "stress" thing is making me 1) love my ipod 2) write like crazy.

Yes. Reece's husband gets this disease (whatever Chuck has...) , only I'm making him kinda hypochondriac & agoraphobic too (ha!).

She handles it well.

And by well, I mean, she gets rich off of it, has quite an adventure, and basically does a few things you wish you had the guts to do.

So enough about writing -- I mean, writing about writing -- and back to the actual
writing.

Because Melissa needs to get rich, have some adventures, and do a few things that you wish YOU had the guts to do.

Later!

Lightning Bolt

Information hit me like a truck. Encephalitis? Could be. Complications? Stroke, mental impairment, death. Wow.

I called Chuck's Dr.s immediately, found out that they never ordered labs and bloodwork on him.

The tip off to their panick was the nurse's question, "Where are you, right now? How soon can you get these done?"

I dropped everything.

Raced across town, got the lab orders, got Chuck, made it to the lab for them to draw blood -- feeling guilty the entire time for leaving some of my professor work undone.

It's the beginning of the semester, and not time to drop a single ball.
Gotta impress them, right?

So we're sitting in a crowded lab, full of people who... well, people I wouldn't see normally. Leave it at that.

It was uncomfortable, dirty, tense.

There weren't two seats together, so I sat across the room from Chuck, scribbling notes for a lecture.

Then my cell phone rang.

Everyone stared at me, excited to easedrop.

I saw who the call was from.

My sick husband.

I looked up at him, he made a face at me, and I hit the DECLINE button.

We laughed.

I went back to work.

Beginnings, Beginnings.

So it's the first day of a new, express, Summer semester. I'm at work, but Chuck is still at home. Not well, and not knowing why.

Right.

Back to me.

I'm ridiculously proud of managing the kids this weekend without his help.

THINGS I DID WELL THIS WEEKEND

1) Spent a total of $30 at Walmart and Target (2 trips) buying play doh, crayons and coloring books.

The kids had so much fun that Zack actually cried in the middle of the night to get up and play with play doh... when's the last time YOU were this excited about anything???

2) Took the trash out.

I hate it when the kitchen trash is full, but I still pack things in, and mentally sneer "ha, he'd better get to this soon or the bag will burst" -- well, now that I'm the designated trash-taker-outer, things have changed.

On Monday mornings, the trash people (dear God, can I think of no better title for them? help!) come, so I also had to take the huge nasty-smelling big outside can to the curb.

Considering our house is on the top of a hill, getting the huge can down the hill would've been easy if someone could make demonstate technique.

Get in front of it, kinda pulling and guiding it, hoping to not get run over and have the trash spill everywhere?

Get behind it and lean back, like following an ox?

Of course, I did it the worst way possible.
Use your imagination.
It was awkward, ugly, and generally slow, but the point is, I did it.

And I took out the recycling, too.
That bin looked so vulnerable and open, begging for neighbors to scrutinize our consumption habits... so I rearranged the stuff and laid all the diet pepsi boxes on top. That made me feel better. Smarter. Together, if just for a few minutes.

3) Writing.

Seriously, I'm getting a ton of writing done - I promise you, when I'm not blogging compulsively, I'm working on the novel.

It took a gigantic leap forward this weekend, and you'll love it.
Juicier, richer, a little more... provocative, mentally.

4) Mercilessly taunting Chuck

I mean, if he's well enough to watch TV and play entire seasons of football on his Xbox, the man is fair game, right?

He told me that when this is all over, and he's all better, I don't have to worry about him looking back at this time and thinking "Wow, she never complained once."

I agreed.

And then, we laughed.
Of course.

Conundrum

Wow. So now Zack has a fever of 102.

Our house is being stricken by vertigo, plagues, the flu and princess dresses.

I have so much to write about, you can't even imagine it - but I'm trying HARD to be a great mom, so I'll write tomorrow.

Meanwhile, here are some pictures from Texas Deb's surprise party on June 10.
Yes, Texas Deb, with the toe rings.
Yes, that's my skinny wrist holding up the birthday cake.
I have never ever in my life worried about my wrists and ankles being fat.

Isn't that a happy thought???

For Better or Else... And a Tale of My Day

OK, so Chuck is alive.

It wasn't a stroke, that's definite.

So, since apparently he isn't going to die this week, I want him to get up and DO something. I have no room in my life for a glorified chairwarmer, especially one that snores and doesn't have a trust fund.

Even though he isn't on the verge of dying, he still can't really contribute around the house. At all.

I've been reduced to wiping butts, taking out the trash, fielding phone calls, driving the kids everywhere, and still trying to put together a series of coherent thoughts.


Dear Chuck --> Get up. Get better. Or get out.
(Take my car -- I'm getting used to yours --)

I didn't think I could take care of things on my own.
Seriously.

Now I'm bragging....

So far today I've been able to workout (2 miles), make breakfasts and pack lunchboxes, get the kids up & to school, and shake a friend down for a good story about goosing someone at a wedding.

I made it to Target for milf hour (oh? didn't anyone tell you? It's the window of time between dropping off the kids and either going out to lunch or meeting your personal trainer and/or boyfriend... pretty much from 9am to 11:30am)

I've graded 80 final exams and assigned final grades.

Then I cleaned the house, picked up prescriptions, went to the bank, filled the car's gastank, balanced the checkbook (hello, he MUST be sick if he's allowing me to actually WRITE in the check register....) and done the grocery.

I only had to call Chuck for help one time.

OK, four times.

All from Publix -- I had no idea what kind of hamburger helper to buy... or where the hotdogs were.... or what kind of apple juice our son drinks... or which orange juice to buy...

I mean, I looked really cute bopping around with my open toed shoes, swishy pants, spandex top and pink-jacketed ipod.

Wasn't that enough??

All and all, I can promise you that:

1) I 've realized that I'm tougher than I thought I was (except for the breakdown in the icecream aisle -- I just couldn't decide which kind to get!) and ....

2) I will forever more tip Chuck (or whomever...) when he carries the groceries in on a 100 degree summer day.

The Biggest Mistake I Ever Made

OK, well maybe the SECOND biggest, come to think of it... well, anyway, what I really shouldn't have done is tell Zoe that we go to sleep when the sun goes down.

I told her this when she was less than 2 years old -- and here we are, more than 3 years later -- and I totally regret the fact that I don't put the kids to bed at 8pm. Or 7pm.

It's after 8:15 now, and I know the kids have at least another hour and a half in them.

Yes, they're tired.

But today is the longest day of the year (or is it tomorrow?? hello, please, someone who gets to actually watch the news, please fill me in on reality!) and they are climbing the freaking walls.

On a very serious note, the producers of Supernanny called.

Oh! You think I'm kidding!

No -- my publicist (thank you ~) sent me to a casting, and I've made the third round.

The first round was an in person interview +photo, the second was a huge essay assignment (hello?? maybe I exaggerated a teeny bit in places, but it was funny.... and I had a great time writing it --- ) and now they're following up, wanting to come here.

Noooooooooo.

I am NOT going to bring TV cameras into my house.

No. Never. Not. Sorry.

Especially if they're going to capture me typing away in my blog while my husband is dying and the children are bathing unsupervised.

Please.

AS IF watching my family would make good TV!!??

Um... how much do you think they pay?????

Today's (SICK) Person of the Day: Chuck

Chuck is still flat-on-his back sick.

When he's in bed or in a chair -- completely still -- he isn't sick.
If he stands, moves, turns -- the vertigo kicks in and he keels over.
Grimaces.
Throws up.
Moans.


It's almost kinda funny.
I mean, if it were one of the kids, I'd be freaking out.
Or a pet.
That would be awful.

But this is a grown man.

He can still talk on the phone, watch the US Open (although he had less witty comments to taunt Mikelson with -but that's nothing new), watch NBA finals, and compulsively balance the checkbook.

It's been kinda nice not having him point out sticky spots on the floor, or leave a pile of dirty clothes on the floor every day.

I've enjoyed driving his car (the fast one) and playing loud music.

But this is getting old.

The kids and I are tired of his infirmity.
They're bouncing off the walls, and I'm dying to hide from them in the bathroom and write.
His car takes the expensive gas, and gets much worse mileage than mine.

So the Doctors say this will clear up on its own.
They've given him Claritin.

I'm not joking.

The man is immobile and he's taking allergy pills.
Over the counter ones, not even cool new color-coded RX bottles they have at Target.

Poor guy.

Part of me is completely in denial.
I think that when we leave the house, he's watching porn.
Getting high.
Making chocolate shakes with oreos, laughing at us all.

Because the idea of him being disabled for a long time is a bit more than I can handle.
I hate seeing him like this.

He needs to bounce around, do Clinton and Ross Perot impressions, dunk basketballs over some unsuspecting 18 year olds, make up silly songs for the kids.

It's like he's around, but he isn't Chuck right now.

Of course, he doesn't read my blog.

So this is just between you and me.

Right?

Definitely a Pattern Here

Because it's hard to give D's and F's. This summer I've integrated more assignments than ever before. Quizzes at home. A project. Exams on lectures. They have about 20 grades. So there is absolutely no doubt -- some people clearly have earned D's and F's, and there is nothing I can do. I tried, seriously, I tried. But they aren't thirsty for what I have to offer, they aren't ready to succeed, they just aren't doing well in school.

The other part of it is that I'm saying goodbye to some amazing people have made a place for themselves in my dailylife for the past 6 weeks.

And now it's over.

I feel like a big freaking dork wanting to shout out "great job" and "you're amazing" -- but if I don't do that, I can't live with myself. This summer the standouts have included Megan. Kari. Adam. Jatequa. Claude. Max (always!). Lauren. Jesse. Shadon. Aubrey. Ashley. Those Bardhi's, who really taught me as much as I taught them. Erika, who had a baby on Wednesday and made it to class on Friday.

I'm missing a few here, but it's hard to write while Zack is trying to rub green playdoh on my keyboard.

So tomorrow I guarante I'll be warm and friendly. Encouraging. Seriously, being a professor is a great priveldge. I take it seriously. And I guess that's why the end of the semester is --- well, tough. So many beginnings and ends.

This will go on 4 or more times a year, for the next 40 years... if I'm lucky.

Writing, Alone, In Orlando

I have had all day to myself.

Yes, Chuck is sick. So sick that someone (his stepmother) is sleeping on the sofa in case he needs to go to the hospital. And yes, I took the kids to Orlando and hoisted them on my parents. That's another story, OK?

Today's Saturday. I'll write about Friday when I feel like it. It will be a good one, because I saw tourists being stupid. But bakd to today.

I spent MOST of the day at the Virgin mega-store in downtown Disney grading projects.

Dear students --> What are you doing visiting my blog when you have so much work to do??? Yes, they are graded, but NO I didn't post the grades because I can only get internet at my vacation condo's bar, and I'm not gonna log onto blackboard.

Plus, I want you to SEE your project & how I graded it before you see your grade.

You'll get it Monday. Now, back to ME.

When I finished all the grading (3.5 hours) I went to see the movie Lake House.

Now I’m at the condo bar listening to old people from England sing Karaoke while my parents are in the Magic Kingdom with the kids.

I could be doing yoga. Sit quietly. Read. But no. This is Melissa. I write.

My life before writing was like someone who is gay spending years in the closet.

Writing is what I do, for work and for fun, so of course I’m going to write during my precious quiet time.

What did you think I’d do, drink margaritas? Actually, I’ve lost 6 pounds this month, and today is the only day I’m having a bit to drink.

It’s Dancing Bull Zinfandel. About $10.

I can’t even understand why people pay more than that for wine. But ask me again when I’m rich.

Maybe I’ll understand then.

So, anyway, I've got a couple of posts ready to launch, so enjoy!!!

A Letter to Vacationers in the South

An open letter to my northern friends who visit Florida in summer.

First of all, as I keep telling you, I’m not rich. I spend less than $700 a year on clothes, shoes and makeup for myself. I don’t have the luxury to have different wardrobes for each season. I have to be strategic. Right now, it’s in the 80s and I’m wearing a skirt – ok, a skort. On top, a long sleeve featherweight pj-like, almost see through light gray shirt with a longer olive, body fitting (no, not tight) shirt over it.

I look good.Why? I have a strategy.

Hello. I see you.

I see that you bought some cute clothes for your vacation, and yes, I think you seriously believed you would lose those 5 pounds before vacation, but things come up. I know.

Here’s the thing.

Not only are those clothes a little too tight, they are also way too formal for Florida in summer.

I am not an authority on many things, but I have spent most of my life in the South.

Yes, there were 2 freakish years of exile in Boulder, but I’ve recovered from the culture shock. My time there would’ve been so much easier if someone had helped acculturate me.

Because I know what it feels like to look like you don’t belong, to look uncomfortable, and all that good stuff, I’m taking time out of my super-hip vacation to shoot a list to you.

Makeup melts in the heat.

1) Please, please, ditch the foundation. Now, this doesn’t mean that you should go bald-faced. You might be in the background of my picture, and forever I’ll be looking at you, wondering why you’re so splotchy. Here’s what you do. First, wear moisturizer with SPF. Yes, moisturizer. Your skin will get dry in the heat, and every single crack will show. Of course you won’t be standing in front of the mirror so it technically isn’t your problem. But you’re reading this because you care, so please do it!

2) Take your concealer – and if you don’t have concealer, buy some or stop reading here, because every civilized woman has concealer – and use it strategically. Dab dab here and there, cover the red spots at the bottom of your nose that everyone has, cover the blue-purple darkness that everyone has where their nose and eye meet. Then dab a bit on any other yucky spots. Cover it all with the lightest dusting of pressed powered (and if you don’t have that, buy some like yesterday) and you’ve got melt-proof foundation.

3) Go easy on the blush. If it’s dark enough to wear during the evening, it’s way to dark to wear in the middle of the day in the florida sun. Try a bronzer or a sunny shade of blush on the apples of your cheeks. The middle of the day is NOT the time to carve out cheekbones with your contour brush. It will look awful, and no one will tell you.

4) Summerize your lipstick. I’m a big fan of lipliner and a bit of shimmer gloss. Nudes, pinks, berries. Beware of corals – unless you are 100% sure you have the coloring to pull it off, you might just have a garish red-orange smile. Aim for sheer, glossy, light. But please, do wear lipstick. Something awful happens to a face when the lips look all dry and shrively, They aren’t kissable, they don’t look young and friendly, and you might ruin my pictures.

5) Give some serious thought to your eye makeup. When I watched Lake House with Sandra Bullock, I truly admired the job her makeup artist did framing her brown-black eyes in a smokey mahogany liner. In real life, regular women who try this often just end up looking crazy. A great summer daytime look is a nude sheer wash across the eye, then little shimmer in a darker color in the crease and as liner. Please please if you’re over the age 30, try to avoid dark, bright, and/or harsh colors during the day. No aqua liner, no purple smears. These evoke images of a woman drinking too many mimosas before showering and trying to pull herself together.

OK. Let’s be honest about your clothes.
1) Tight is bad. It makes you sweat in places that… well, sweating is not desirable. Really tight and white is worse. Even if you are ridiculously rich, tanned and hardbodied.

Now, really tall and lean women can pull this off, but it helps if they’re Paris Hilton. If you absolutely must wear white pants, go for some swoosh factor, some sort of lightness to them.

I personally haven’t owned white pants since middle school. And, for the record, they were tight and I word them with rainbow suspenders. So, if you want to be like I was, go right ahead.

2) A bathing suit is not a bra. If you’re over 30 and have had kids, you probably need a decent bra. OK, most of you don’t know what a bra should do. It’s simple. Your nipple should line up exactly at the midpoint between your armpit and elbow.

Unless you’re on your second set of boobs (and, hey, when I sell my book I’m buying new boobs before any other luxury purchase) you probably need a bit of a boost to get the nipples to where God herself intended them to be. Most bathing suits allow a little droopage, and in return, reward you with some great cleavage. This is all lost when you toss a t-shirt over it. The result is… well, dumpy.

Low boobs add pounds, and every freaking picture you take will make you hate yourself. I warned you, so don’t hate me, too.

3) Feet need to breathe. If you’re on vacation, plan to show some toe. But not in heels. High heels plus open toes, during the daytime, equals hooker or stripper. Not what you’re aiming for, huh?

4) How are your arms?

Have your arm muscles disappeared? Do you have arms so white that they look blue? Have you forsaken shaving for the last few months? Do you have acne on the backs of your arms?

If you can answer yes to ANY of these questions, please please please don’t wear a tank top.

We southern belles who find ourselves in this (temporary, right?) situation wear longer sleeves in lighter fabrics. Still look super cute, but you don’t’ reveal anything, well, ugly.

And yes, flabby white acne-full upper arms are an appetite suppressant.

So if you see me taking your picture, it’s only because I’m out of Trimspa and I don’t get paid again until the end of the month.

How is your hair?

Did you spend an hour blowdrying your hair during the humid Florida summer? Wow. What a waste. Summer hair is happy hair. Easy hair. If it took an hour, it isn’t happy, it wasn’t easy, and you’re probably sweaty and annoyed at the people who screamed at you to hurry up.

No one is having fun and you look bad.

Now, put on something light and comfy, smile, and be happy.

You're in Florida!

Movie Review: The Lake House

The Lake House is a movie about connections, about wanting to be known, about wallowing in a fantasy life.

Which is why I loved it.

OK. It was predictable in a Sleepless in Seattle sort of way.

I mean, I could totally tell where they were going with the whole “Valentine’s Day 2006” thing. Maybe because I’m a writer.

Or a romantic.

Well, actually, both. Unapologetically, I might add.

I’m such a compulsive writer that I wrote during the movie.

Which was a feat because the place was packed and a latecomer eyed the chair taken by my purse and forced me to kindly offer the seat up. But I never relinquished the armrest. It was mine, I got there first. This is not a gray area.

What I wrote was: This is a movie about wanting to be known.

So back to that.

What I see, and what I recognized deeply, is the need to reveal pieces of oneself safely.

Safe means different things, I’m sure.

Instead of connecting with someone 2 years away, a person could connect with character in a book and write them letters.

Or get a crush person in a faraway land like Ohio who would never ever ever be interested.

That’s like *Wells Fargo-level *safe.


I guess, if they really really wanted to reveal pieces of themselves, to come clean with themselves by being honest with someone else – or the world – I guess they could just blog.

Good News. Bad News.

The good news is that I'm driving to Orlando to meet my parents later today.

The bad news is that Chuck is sick. Like sick in a weird way. Dizzy, can't walk.

The kind of symptoms you'd bring your dog to the vet for.

But he isn't my dog, and the kids are at home with him, going crazy.

He couldn't drive them to school so he's home stuck with 2 kids that are bouncing off the walls with "we want to go to DISNEY NOW" attitudes.

The good news is that I'm at work, immune from the chaos.

The bad news is that eventually I'll have to go home.

The good news is that I will get to leave home, sooner or later.

The bad news is that it's kinda immoral and illegal to leave a sick person all alone at home.

Unless he asks nicely.

In which case, the good news is that I'll play kid music while driving to Disney. We can never do this with Chuck in the car. It gives him a headache. I don't mind it at all. It keeps the kids quiet, and then I daydream. Happiness all around!

The bad news, of course, is that if we leave Chuck here at home, we won't be able to torture him on Father's Day.

Of course, by Sunday the man will be up, happy and playing golf.

The Affair Deepens: A Working Mother Needs an IPod

You think you know a lot about ipods?

Right. OK. I did too. Thanks to a favorite-friend getting advice from HIS 10 year old and then explaining it step-by-step to me, I was able to synch up all my music. I downloaded podcasts and videos. That's what iPods are for, right??

Apparently, there's a bunch more. I guess I sorta got it when someone told me that iPods -- espeically my wonderfully, shiny 60gb one -- could really be used as a mega-mammoth-thumb drive.

But that's silly, right? Thumb drives, -- portable memory devices about the size of a Nicole Richie's pinkie on a day she hasn't eaten -- are small, expensive, easy to lose.

Using my iPod as a thumb drive is like using ferrari as a golf cart.

Wait.

If ferrari made golf carts, all the cool people would buy them.
And race the engines loudly.
Wipe the fingerprints off.
Lean into them for a/c during the 14th hole.

I'm liking this.

So yesterday I tried using my iPod as memory storage.

Please, please people.
You have to understand -- I thought the iPod was for music.

I can ONLY listen to so much music before I go crazy.

Send me playlists, suggest cool new songs, because I'm heading into a deep rut.
Besides that, I have 2 preschoolers. I can't walk around with earplugs.

I mean, I guess I can. I could totally walk around tuning them out, iPod in one had, and a long island iced tea in the other. Right. And I could also go two months without shaving my armpits and head to the beach to flash the world.
None of that is going to happen.

So how can a working mother in her 30s use an iPod for something besides music?

I hooked my pod up to husband's Mac and zipped all the photos off his computer.
All of them. Well over a thousand of them.

This weekend when I see my parents in Disney, I can play them a slide show with the kids pictures on my iPod.

And I can synch my iPod up to my laptop, download the pictures there, and burn a CD for my dad.

Thanks to my iPod.

This love affair is ridiculously wonderful.

Pictures I found on My Husband's Computer

Ha! I got a picture of Zack in a Snow White dress.

Yes, his sister did it to him, and yes, he loved it.


While I was in Austin, husband took this picture of my poor son. The longer you stare at this picture, the more you will learn about my family.... Yes, he's asleep. And yes, that's Bob Marley.

Here's a picture I took a long time ago.

Yes. Yes. Zoe climbs fences, we all scribble on the fence. It's chalk, OK?

One day we'll live like civilized folks with furniture, landscaping, fountains.

The Affair Continues

Remember my post about the "loaner" i-Pod? (( Desire, Lust, and Other Things ))

Well, last week I sent some friendly people at Apple a pleading email, asking if I could please keep the wonderful thing until December, promising to do three podcasts.

They said yes. They said YES! THEY SAID YES!!

Amazing.

Until they said yes, I really didn't let myself love this iPod.

Now it's all changed.

First of all, I put a lot of attention into the careful naming of the iPod.

Did you EVEN know that you would get to name your iPod?

Now I'm trying to figure out how to throw myself a "Pod Shower," so that my techy friends students can buy me wonderful accessories, eat crackers and cheese, and share stories about their first iPods (sniff).

This is like Build-a-Bear workshop. Times a gazillion.

Because seriously, over the past week I've been sharing my frustration, ebullience, and excitement with students.

Talking about *my* iPod is having an unexpected, positive effect in the classroom.

One student - I'll call her Jess - never talks in class. Never.

But every day that I've talked about the iPod, she's stayed after and given me pointers. Then she asked questions -- about History, about her grade, about things she'd read but hadn't understood.

It's like we're finally finding some common ground, and building her self-confidence.

Which makes me ridiculously happy in a way I can't even dream of telling her to her face!

Of course, there is still work to be done.

I have playlists to synch, podcasts to subscribe to, accessories to register for....

Melissa * Laughing: Desire, Lust, and Other Things I'm Feeling Tonight

Melissa * Laughing: Desire, Lust, and Other Things I'm Feeling Tonight

Alberto Blowing In

No one told me anything about a tropical storm.

Or hurricane.

His name is Alberto, which is an indisputably sexy name.

It conjures images of Alberto in a cheeeesy-foreign he-wears-banana-hammock-bathing-suits-but-it's-his-style.

Alberto drinks champagne, eats cheese for dessert, and has a boat in the Mediterranean: at least that's his story.

Alberto is coming RIGHT at Tallahassee.

This is inconvenient because it's the last week of summer school.

I teach history, which is necessarily linear so if we cancel class, I have to... well... skip something. Like the 1960s. And that's just rotten, because these poor students have spent their summer being bored crazy over the 1500s, 1600s, 1700s, 1800s, all with the promise of getting to learn more about Civil Rights, Vietnam. My poor poor students!!


But back to the impeding natural disaster.

We aren't prepared for a hurricane at all.

I have to send Chuck out to Walmart for water, diapers, flashlights, a radio.

And you totally know that he'll come back with poptarts, cheetos, coke, munchies.
Why do I send him out when I know the man always has the munchies??
If a hurricane hits and you need something salty and crunchy, call Chuck.

Me?

I'll be hiding in the bathroom.

Writing.

Today's Person of the Day: Greg

Well, OK, it isn't his birthday. But he's.... special.

In 14 years of teaching college, I have never met a student who was able to miss so many classes and pull an A on sheer brilliance and willpower.

Which is why I restructured my courses and created "Greg's Rule" -- basically, if you miss X amount of classes & in-class essays, you can't get an A.

Greg.
Smart.
Tall.
Resourceful.
Chain-smoker.

WRITES IN ALL CAPITAL LETTERS WITHOUT PUNCTUATION OR PARAGRAPH BREAKS LIKE HE'S WRITING AND LIVING A BRAVE LOUD FIRST DRAFT.

Loves wine.

Has actually brought bottles of wine to my office to show me, then zipped them back in his backpack.


Tease.

Greg, whose tempestuous life is teaching him more lessons than he can readily absorb sometimes.

That's OK.
Because he's the kind of guy we all want to succeed.

Jeans 101: What You Should Expect

Thanks, anonymous, for the recent compliment on my jeans.

I agree that wearing jeans -- and flat heeled but cute shoes that show off a conservative but soooo sexy pedicure -- make me a generally nicer and more approachable person.

Which is why I generally wear suits.

You might not know that besides being a History Professor, I also hold an advanced degree in Jeaneology.

It took me years and years to earn it, and required countless hours of staring at all sorts of people wearing hideously ill-fitting jeans, but I think it has been an endeavor that has improved my life.

And - if you've ever been lucky enough to drag me to the mall - I bet I picked out some jeans that make you look damn hot.

So, anyway, what should you EXPECT from a good pair of jeans?

1) Good jeans should lift and separate.

Think of jeans as a bra for your butt.
There should be a gentle, subtle wonderfulness to your backside.

Note: This "lifting and separating" should ONLY occur in the BACK of your jeans.
If it happens in the front, it's called cameltoe. Cameltoe looks bad, cheap, probably hurts, and (is this a secret?) makes a person cranky and awful to be around.

2) Good jeans should NOT push anything up.

I am referring to the phenomenon of "muffin tops" spilling over the waistband.

This is sadly also accompanied by ill-fitting bras which push a bunch of muffin southward, creating a Michelin-Man waist.

The ideal body shape curves in, not out.
If your jeans, or bra, push you over-and-out, ditch them.

Better yet, give them to someone who annoys you.

3) Good jeans should make your legs look long and lean.

That, they cannot do, if they drag on the ground.
Or hit you above the ankle bone.
Or if they are baggy on the thigh and tight on the ankle.

4) Good jeans should make your torso look long and lean.

Now listen, your jeans can't help it if YOU are short waisted.

I do not know why God herself saw fit to put some people's belly button about three inches below their busts.

If yours is that high, I BEG you to please wear jeans that hit you below the belly button.

Here's the thing about lower-waisted jeans.
They make your butt look smaller.
If you have a tiny pooch, they cover it.

If your jeans balloon over a generous butt and gut, then cinch up at your waist, they will emphasize all your flaws.

And, I promise, they make your butt look flat.
Ask someone.
Someone who will tell you the truth, that is....

*Happy Birthday*

Happy Birthday to YOU, Houdini.

And Happy Birthday to YOU, Texas Toe Ring woman.

.

Now, if I had the guts to violate the confidentiality agreement that was FORCED on me at the end of Saturday night's surprise soiree....

Eternity?

((overheard on a recent drive))

Do you think that in heaven, after we die, we can just do whatever we want? Like play golf with Titantic Thompson, hang out with Jimi Hendrix?

Your idea of heaven is hanging out with anyone but me?

Pretty much.

Good to know.

SURE I can keep secrets!!

OK, look. I had a GREAT day doing leadership trainings at Girls State. And I promise to write about it later. Like tomorrow. Or Monday.

Because right now I need to shake off my tireness (it's a happy exhaustion, but still --) and get ready for the surprise birthday party.

Oh, did I let the cat out of the bag?

No.

Because I know you won't read this until afterwards.

Yes, you. You TOTALLY know who you are because I've written about you, and for you.

But you don't read this blog all the time.
I know that.
I know everything dammit, and there is NO way you -- or anyone else -- could ever pull a surprise party on ME!

Its a party for your BIG birthday that's happening any day now.

And you totally aren't expecting to see me at this party because you have NO idea how resourceful your friends are when they want to be sneaky.

So, tomorrow, when I post pictures, you'll read this and laugh.
Because -- I mean, c'mon, admit it -- I won.

Now, I need to pick out something cute... did you like my black and white polka dotted skirt, that 60s looking thing? Or those swingy swishy pants? I forget.
But I promise to wear heels, pantyhose (nude, silky, subtle) and the pearls. Lipgloss.
And a smile!

I totally forget what someone told you that you WERE going to do tonight, or how the h*** you're going to end up at the PLACE, but it's gonna be an adventure. An adventure that includes wine, for once. And pictures, probably.

Definitely going to be something --

See you in a little!

Casual Friday

So this morning I said NO to the suit because I have to wear a suit & heels & pearls & lipstick (poor me!) tomorrow for a leadership training.

Jeans. Cute open-toed shoes that I wouldn't call flip flops, but you might. They are so ridiculously comfortable that I can't help but smile with relief every time I take even a twenty step walk in them.

On top, two layered shirts, and pearl earrings.
No pearl necklace - too dressy with jeans.
As tacky as heavy makeup as Disney during the summer.
But I digress.

I'm in my office by 6:15, knocking out an article I promised would be done today. I gave myself exactly 1 hour to write it, and stuck to the deadline.

As I finished, a most-favorite-friend called to check in, and it started to really feel like a summer Friday.

By 8:15am, I was well into grading a stack of diplomatic history exams when the urge seized me. I *had* to see what was in the break room.

See - we have a great faculty lounge up here in the HSS building.

Not only is it comfortable, but these amazing fairies drop by and magically fill the tables with bagels, donuts, bread.

The other morning there were 3 cannoli (no! no! no!) and a cheesecake.

I didn't touch them. Didn't even slow down my momentum as I beelined to the coffeemaker, even though I had a pot of coffee in my office.

My coffee is so strong that 2 cups in a row leave me dizzy.

Better to alternate: Cuban, American, water, Cuban, American, water, lunch.

I am sure that coffee novices everywhere will have an immediate improvement in the quality of their lives if they let me become their caffeine-mentor. I could even work up a routine that integrated diet coke (with and without the big C) for an extra few bucks. I have so many marketable talents!

Then yesterday there was cake and cookies in the breakroom.

Again, I didn't touch a thing, just nuked my weightwatchers meal that always seems wet, small, sad. I covered it with hot pepper flakes and grabbed a ton of paper towels.

But today, I was ready for a little celebration.

It's been a LONG week, and this weekend will be pretty trying.

So I thought, hey, maybe the bagel fairy came!! Maybe? Maybe?

Perhaps I would be able to sneak in, snag one, and slip out unseen.

The only thing worse than eating a bagel is having people KNOW you're eating a bagel.

It seems kinda unrefined to have a huge hunk of bread for breakfast, especially when I wasn't that hungry.

I should want fruit.
I should want yogurt.
I should want to sit quietly and breathe nutrients from the air straight into my bloodstream.
Whatever. I crack myself up.
Back to the bagel run.

As I turned the corner by the Dean's office, he strode out of the lounge - coffee cup in hand -- and offered his usual greeting.

Shouting my name.
Loudly.
SOLDANI!

I smiled, then he looked me up and down and said, Casual Friday, huh?

Um, yeah?

He wasn't wearing a tie. And other professors (men, of course) had SHORTS on.
This was not a great conversation starter.

All I could think of was, Hey! You're BAGEL BLOCKING.

But, instead, I did a cute little dance in the hall, and went back to grading exams.



I

Something Big

The house is quiet, except for the TV on in the other room. I'm not bothered enough to get up and change it.

The kids are gone, the kitchen is clean, and I'm dressed for a run.

But then I sat down.

Because I realize what I'm doing, again.

Moving, running, chasing paper dragons.

A piece of me would like to have a glass of wine, paint my nails, listen to loud music.

Again, running, dancing, trying to get something done -- all the time. Like I have to have receipts for my time, proving I haven't wasted a minute.

So I'm forcing myself to sit still.
In a chair.
Quietly.
And think.

Which, if I could just turn the computer off -- would be something big.

Nice? Nicer?

(Overheard at work -- you can only guess which professor-said-what)

Wanna see this picture? Isn't he cute?

Yes. Too bad he has kids.

So?

I'm on the market, you know.

Um, for him?

For someone. I scheduled dating into my daytimer.

Now?

No. Fall. Maybe late July. August.

But not HIM. You aren't nice enough for him.

(pause)

I'm nicer than you. On the niceness scale, this is really nice (makes gestures) I'm here. (indicates middle-ish) You're there. Below me.

(shocked)

You are? You cut me off when we raced to the bathroom yesterday.

I'm nicer.

You say that while you're getting coffee in my office. Cuban coffee. I'm nicer.

No, I am definitely nicer than you.

F* you.

(laughter)

My Shadow

It isn't that I'm not cut out to be a Mommy.

I'm not the worst Mommy in the world.

But when I spent the day at home yesterday with sick Zack, I was incredibly distracted.

There was so much WORK to be done.

I scrubbed the toilets.
Wiped the baseboards.
Did 6 loads of laundy.
Took everything out of the refrigerator, wiped it all down, fixed it back up.
Felt guilty for not grading exams, for not being online for my students, for not writing another chapter in my book.

It was a day of hard labor, exacerbated by my shadow, the poor kid who I was ostensibly staying home to take care of.

He followed me around in his peaceful, happy way, trying to make small talk -- Rainman style.

You cleaning?

Yes, Zack.

Good job, Mommy.

Thanks.

(pause....)

Whatcha doin' Mommy?

I'm still cleaning.

You cleaning?

(deep breathe, clench jaw, try to see humor)

Yes, Zack, Mommy is cleaning.



I hesitate to admit this -- but honesty is my policy.

Cleaning doesn't make me happy.

It makes me angry, resentful, a bit agitated.

And I don't like to feel those things. Not at all.

I am thankful for my home, thankful to have such a beautiful new home, and I know it takes a lot of work to keep it looking nice, or at least tidy.

But something deep inside of me says "Hey! You do such great work when you (write, teach, whatever) that you shouldn't have to do this, too~"

I know that's kinda arrogant.

But I'm being honest.

I admit that I feel entitled to sit around the house, lounging like the queen, enjoying the backyard (when we get backyard furniture. and a grill. and plants --), playing with the kids.

Something inside of me believes that if I just work hard enough at OTHER things, then the cleaning fairy will appear and make my house just wonderful.

Until that happens, at least I can say that I spent some quality time with Zack, teaching him about the many joys of Clorox cleanup.

Once Upon a Time... ( From June 2006)

Once upon a time, a kindly professor named Melissa hopped a plane (by herself, of course) to South Florida for a four-day whirlwind tour of relatives, former colleagues, and other assorted odds and ends.

I amexcruciatingly aware that several people are sitting on pins and needles waiting to see what I will write about them.

Or if I will spare them. Please!

Let's just skip Stuart. He is perfect.

If he weren't a high-powered attorney (power being measured by the type of BMW he drives and the quality of the earpiece he wears while driving it....) he would make an amazing physician. Enough said?

Then the triumverate of Lory, Anne and Jene, the three of whom look like a poster of "after" pictures for Gold's Gym. Brilliant, successful, hardbodied women who are stuck in perpetual great hair days.

My lowpoint of the wonderful evening seven of us spent together was Lory's proclaiming "I've never weighed more than 110 pounds."

It was *HER* night, so I didn't give her a swift kick.

Honestly, the woman doesn't have a smug bone in her, so she didn't deserve a kick.

Maybe a pinch.

Or a good-natured shove.

Into a pool.

Oh, Jene? Hello? Next time I order a CD, I'd like it on a CD.

Not a zip drive.

Not on notebook paper, not on a floppy disk from the 90s.

But honestly, I didn't mean to leave it at Anne's house.

So, um, burn it to a CD (there isn't a lot of room for negotiating here) or email me the playlist and I'll visit my special music place that I know better than to list here.

Anne. Anne. When I grow up, I still want to be you.

With less kids. But I'll take everything else.

And, Nancy? Is the Lucy-shower still on? Because I'm free to come down and draw obscene pictures again. But this time, I'll be adding breasts. Have you registered anywhere, yet??

Martin. You have not been given clearance to date.

You are supposed to be working 90 hour weeks, then going home. Alone. To think about how you are too busy for women. There is no woman good enough for you. None worthy of your charm, intelligence or wit. So you're going to be alone for a long time. That's an order.

Then there's Melissa, the other Melissa. Not me. I'm not making this up. I have a friend Melissa, a successful atty who -- like Stuart -- drives a BMW and can kick your ass if she has to.

I am totally indebted to Melissa for letting me slip by with something.
She knows what I mean. I owe her one.

My Dad. I spent a bit of time on my mini-vacation at home, staring into space, listening to dad talk to customers.

They don't just call about hibiscus.

They call to flirt, to tell him how beautiful his flowers are... and how big they are... and how interesting his accent is... oh my G*** it's almost nauseating how people love to compliment my dad and shower him with money. It's a good life.

Mom is doing well. I spare her my blogging. She and Abuela are sacrosanct.

So, back to life.

Except for an email I'm about to answer in another blog.

Wednesday's To Do List: Part 1

• Stay home with sick child.
• Entertain sick child. Gently and patiently. Perhaps at the mall.
• Feed kid junk at the mall.
• Drink a diet coke.
• Steal no fries.
• Drive until sick child falls asleep.
• Lay him down on his bed (note: add "make his bed" to this list)
• Tivo. Tivo. Tivo.
• Or grade papers. Or not.
• Check email to see how students are coming on their major project, due Thursday.
• Check on sick child a hundred times, wipe his sweaty brow.
• Rock him when he wakes up.
• Watch Dora the Explorer over and over and over until it's time to pick up Zoe.

Tell Me. Tell Me NOW.

Hey. You.

And YOU know WHO you ARE.

Don't tell me you have a secret you CAN'T tell me.

Don't tell me you'll tell me on FRIDAY.
Today isn't Friday.

You WANT to tell me.

You WANT to tell me, NOW.

Today. Already. Yesterday.
You WANT to tell me!!!!

Come ON.

Tell me, or I'll tell on YOU.

I mean, I wouldn't DO that.

Unless you MAKE me.
I don't even have any junk on you! Yet....

If you want me to shut up, just buy me an iPod.

Or Cashews?

TELLLLL MEEEEEEEEEEEEEE.

Peggy says that if you get hit by a bus, we'll NEVER know what the secret is, and then we'll require years of therapy.

How can you EVEN live with yourself?

Aren't you just bursting at the seams, convinced that ONCE you tell ME, you can have PEACE?

Or, you could just buy me an iPod.

Oh, nevermind.

I respect your reserve.
Your discipline.
Your ability to taunt me (and Peggy), pulling us into your tangly web.

Fascinating us.

Promising us a moment of enlightenment, of knowledge, or complete disclosure.

Union.

You know what? I don't want to know your secret.
Peggy either.

We don't care.
We have cashews. ((Which Peggy said she'll throw at you, because she thinks I like them so much I'd still pick them up off the floor and eat them.))
We have coffee.
We have great parking spots.
We have important careers, challenging jobs, engaging research.

We are far, far, far too busy to think about how interesting YOUR life is.

I mean, it isn't like we sit around and talk about you.

Not all the time, at least.

Boys Shave

Zack is at the age where he wants to do everything his 5 year old sister does.

Which is leading us to sticky situations because Zoe is a girly girl.
At least when it comes to dressing up and being pretty.

There is not a prim, shy bone in her body, but that's another story.

So when I was painting Zoe's toenails on Saturday afternoon, Zack sat down on the floor, took his shoes off anpatiently waited HIS turn. When I closed up the nail polish, he thought I didn't see him. Or forgot him.

"Meee too! Zacky toooo"

I couldn't.
Even though it was just the palest, faintest pink, and no one would've noticed, I just couldn't do it.

Chuck has issues with this.

For a few weeks (or, maybe, the last year or so---) Zoe would dress Zack up in dresses and gush about how cute he was with his curls, his bow, his purse.

Seriously, the boy has Shirley Temple in him.

Anyway, Chuck's had enough.

He doesn't pick many battles, but he's made it clear that we are NOT to let Zack wear girl clothes, makeup or nail polish.

So I told Zack no. Zoe, trying to diffuse the situation, explained to him, "Boys shave"

Zack liked that.
He says it all the time now, a proclamation of his separation.
His impending manhood.
Finding power in his ability to exclude Zoe and Mommy from something.

I don't know, though.

The other day we were watching the Disney Channel and Zack asked "What's a Doodlebop?" so I told him, " People in costumes."

He looked at me very seriously, nodded his head and said, "Yeah, Mommy, good."

So our conversation was getting deep and I wanted to continue it, so I asked, "What's Mickey?"

And Zack said, "A boy. A mouse. A BIG mouse."

Then I asked, "What's Zack?"

And he threw his hands up and announced "Zack is the QUEEN!"

But I didn't tell Chuck about that.
He was home, but not in the room.
Maybe he was busy shaving.